


Smart Girls are Easy (and Other Humiliations)

by Zigadenus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 01:45:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9100918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigadenus/pseuds/Zigadenus
Summary: They say death comes by a thousand little cuts: just the small hurts, the quiet pain, the bruises on your soul that no one ever sees. Hermione-centric AU, very mildly canon-compliant ('fix-fic', post-DH), eventual adult content.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [braye27](https://archiveofourown.org/users/braye27/gifts).



> Don't mind me, just importing the last of my WIPs over to this platform. If you've met this story elsewhere, you may rest assured that it's not abandoned, I'm only trying to finish something else before the next update. You may also rest assured that as a Slytherin, I am entirely susceptible to bribes in the form of comments, should you be so inclined.

Cissy set the paper down with one of the delicate sniffs that heralded moral indignation. Her own morality, to be sure, but when something stood in contravention to her finely honed perceptions of the Wizarding World, that sound, accompanied or not by the faint moue of her lips, was a blazing signpost of her aesthetic and philosophical discontent.

"Darling?"

"This Skeeter woman. I'm not convinced the _Prophet_ isn't taking a cut of those books. Surely these never-ending reports of her slumming with the Muggles simply can _not_ be popular enough on their own to boost subscriptions. I really can't see any circumstance under which we'd need to know what she's _wearing_ every day of her latest book signing tour.

"And a half-page photo, no less. She's had her nose charmed, it looks like. And a bit of a lift. At least she _is_ dressing rather better. Those foul shoes made my eyes ache."

"They say enough money will improve anyone's wardrobe."

"That's surely true. If you haven't any taste, you had better be rich. It's so tawdry. Do you know, Lucius, I always admired Augusta Longbottom. That woman has enough conviction to stand by her deplorable fashion sense, in spite of her Gringotts vault. But Skeeter. So… nouveau-riche." She _tsked_ in apparent dismay.

He could always trust Cissy to be upset about the things that mattered: Never mind that Rita had largely deserted the Wizarding World after the Triwizard Tournament, only to reappear as a Muggle children's author, laden with a heavily embroidered tale largely cut from whole cloth, which was presently flying off bookshelves as if someone had cast _Wingardium leviosa._ Never mind the ongoing libel suits (he had one pending), which were being tied up in the Wizengamot by investigations into the very real danger of her violating the ICW Statute of Secrecy despite all the embroidery and bullshit. No, Cissy was upset because the _Daily Prophet_ was treating their former all-star investigative journalist as a celebrity. Little people should know their place.

To be completely honest (he tried not to be as a general rule), he subscribed to her general thesis whole-heartedly. But on the other hand, this was _Rita._ For all that she was unsubtle, gauche, and Gryffindor, they had enjoyed a rather amusing flirtation of some standing. He slightly regretted the need to Teach Her A Lesson, because on the whole, he appreciated how utterly ruthless she'd been in carving out a Muggle empire on the backs of a world still stumbling from socio-political turmoil. It wasn't elegant, but you couldn't deny that she'd been effective.

He doubted Cissy could be persuaded of that, however. For Cissy, the ends certainly could justify the means, but only if both evidenced a modicum of class, and a proper understanding of the appearance of decorum, if not respectability. Which reminded him, "Have you decided if you're going to Dumbledore's memorial?"

"Do you know, I think I shall. I've that lovely new Chanel. The bodice cut is just daring enough that the society pages are apt to question its propriety. But what better way to honour a Muggle-lover than Muggle high fashion?" She fluttered her eyelashes.

"Chérie, one day being blonde and beautiful will fail to cover that incorrigible sense of humour, and you'll be the downfall of us all."

"Don't be silly Lucius. No one credits a beautiful woman with more than a smattering of brain cells. And I've no intention of ever losing _these_ looks." She affected a pat at her elegantly coiled hair, "Do you know, that's one of the best arguments in favour of clever witches inviting premier potioneers over as often as we do." Because an occasional dinner party advertised that you were a client, whereas cocktails, card games, and a midnight lunch hinted at social equality, and kept down any speculation that a dewy visage might be augmented with a little help from one's friends. He smirked at her, and wondered, briefly, how she'd have coped if Snape _had_ lost his trial and been tossed back to Azkaban indefinitely. She'd weathered his own incarceration phenomenally well, but then he couldn't brew a skin tonic if his life depended on it, so one could argue that she'd only had to suffer social embarrassment, not inconvenience.

"Speaking of our duplicitous, back-stabbing little friend, what do you think of this Lily Evans rumor that Rita's putting about? You probably knew Severus better in school than anyone else, is there anything to it?"

"Oh, I shouldn't think so. They certainly couldn't have been childhood friends the way Skeeter would have it - he had that horrid northern accent when he first came to Hogwarts, don't you remember? And Evans was from Milton Keynes. I'll always remember that, it was so typically bourgeois and Muddy, and she was so terribly _proud_ to have come from a New City, which I do think showed a deplorable lack of taste. Marked out what she was in an instant. If she'd only known to keep it quiet, she might've passed, she looked well enough, and had, oh, a certain rude glamour I suppose. I'm not really surprised she attracted male attention, by all account she wasn't exactly, ahem, _restrained_ with her affections.

"Still, I always did credit Severus as having a good deal more pride than to sniff after… well. But then we all thought the same of James Potter, and that was a good family, once. So I suppose you never know."

"Well it unnerves me, to be frank."

"Hmm? Well I agree it would be rather unsavory if it were true…"

"No, no. Well, yes I mean, that's a given. Moreover, it's more than a bit pathetic, don't you think? I mean, can you really imagine our Severus moping about, angsting over some dead witch for twenty years? It just beggars belief. Double agent doesn't surprise me, I've always pegged him as a grasping, uppity, shifty little sod. Granted, I _did_ think it was more in the vein of healthy self-interest, and that he was planning to double-cross _us,_ not Riddle." He took a bite of toast as if it had personally offended him, chewed rapidly, and swallowed the remains of his diatribe along with the marmalade. "But that's neither here nor there. What I meant, Cissy, was that it's… hmm. Disconcerting, not quite knowing how someone's strings are arranged. I don't _like_ waking up to find that I haven't the faintest idea how best to make someone dance to a more pleasing tune."

"And do you think Severus Snape ever danced for you, love?"

"Oh, well, no, but I did feel that I understood which way the wind blew in that quarter. Now. Now!? I mean, if you'd asked me to lay odds, there isn't the slightest chance I'd have credited him with returning to Hogwarts, for instance. He hates teaching with a passion. And yet where is he?" He could feel a frown tugging his eyebrows and consciously relaxed his face. It was no good letting Snape get under his skin. Equanimity, that was the key. Good to keep in practise, good to always keep the bastards from realising just how perfectly _annoyed_ they, or in this case, Snape, made him. No one feared a man who couldn't keep control of his emotions, after all. It was probably where Riddle had gone so terribly wrong. Poor misguided idiot.

"I don't think it's necessarily a _bad_ thing, though. His being back at Hogwarts, I mean. I do worry about Draco." Cissy sighed. It did interesting things to her slim chest. Which in turn did interesting things to his trousers. Which interesting things were promptly deflated by further musings about poor sweet Draco, and how would he cope, and perhaps it would be a mistake after all, sending him back.

"Cissy, sweetheart," he tried a stab at salvaging the morning, "He's a splendid, brilliant lad. He went a bit astray, but I do believe that with a good showing of public remorse, his housemates will forgive him his lapse in judgement. Yes, he wallowed shamefully in the shadows of Bella's avaricious pandering to that megalomaniac, but better sense did eventually prevail."

"I do wonder where we failed him, though. From the outset, it really does look too much like what it was: a rebellious child who can't discern the difference between insane fanaticism, and our paying lipservice to a political movement that Riddle _betrayed."_ She'd pursed her lips, nostrils delicately flaring. This was an old, deep wound, one that was rarely salved by the knowledge that many of their peers had also fallen into the madman's tangle before realising that his early rhetoric of 'visions of a unified Wizarding World' hid a snarl of mental instability, hunger for power, disregard for convention, ruthlessness, sociopathy, and obsession. Which, it had to be said, where not necessarily bad things in a political figurehead… except for the mental instability. It ultimately made figureheads intractable to manipulation, and when it translated to maiming and torture, well, there went any veneer of respectability. Particularly when none of it had benefited them a whit. They'd signed up with Riddle to remake their world, and by the end of it found themselves branded terrorists – inept terrorists, just to make the sting worse. It was rather like the fine print on a slightly dodgy contract: Slytherin House expected you to be the one _writing it,_ not belatedly discovering that oh, this wasn't quite what you thought you were getting into.

"I think the fact that the scales did eventually fall from his eyes is a credit to the way we raised him. With a little judicious spin-doctoring, he'll be able to recoup any loss in social standing he suffered. And his very public defense of Potter- _fils_ during the fracas at Hogwarts can be made to work in his favour. I shouldn't worry about him, love, he's got to make his own way in this world." He leaned towards her, and placed a gentle kiss on the angle of her jaw. She sighed, and tilted her head. By his reckoning, he had a full three hours 'til the governor's meeting, and the sunlight glinting on the china had a particularly hopeful cast. "Shall we take a turn about the roses, love?"

She smiled, a covetous promise lurking in her eyes. It was just enough to make him wonder, as he offered her his arm, if she hadn't had a bit of a dalliance in mind from the start. Manipulated, or manipulator? He mentally shrugged. A spouse was a nice sort of possession to have, and they'd long ago settled on mutual ownership.

* * *

"All the scum's come creeping out of the woodwork today, looks like." Ron nodded his chin towards an elegantly robed wizard, who was casually stroking his beard while posing for a photographer. "Everyone's favourite novelist. Did you like the way Skeeter wrote him up? Shame she didn't tell the truth on that one, really. Can't believe that perv was a teacher here, even if it was just Muggle Studies."

"Lockhart? Watch out if McGonagall sees he's here." Harry smirked.

"I've half a mind to tell her. And he brought _her,_ too." Hermione looked like she'd bit a lemon. She'd been like that a lot, lately. "I can't believe they'd be so tasteless as to use Dumbledore's memorial as a photo-op. And coming back to Hogwarts!"

Ron snickered, and hastily turned it into a cough as Hermione glared at him. He elbowed Harry, and they fell back behind her, "They probably wanted to try out the Library, or maybe a table in the Great Hall. 'Cos a broom closet just isn't the poshest place to be caught with your pants down."

"Shame, really," Harry opined, "It's almost too bad we couldn't have got rid of more teachers that way."

"What, would you have done the honours with Umbridge, then?"

"Urgh."

"Still, might've done for Snape. When I think of all those years that miserable fuck tormented us… we should've just had Hermione show up to his office in her knickers."

"That's sick, Ron."

"Well, she's the one who won't shut up about the greasy bastard. I swear she's been crushing ever since the trial. And if he'd pulled a Lockhart years ago, Dumbles might have actually lived through it all."

He realised his error almost immediately: Harry's eye were narrowed, and his harsh whisper was pure venom, "Goddamn it, Ron, I told you, the last thing I want to talk about is _fucking Snape."_ Harry quickened his pace to catch up to Hermione.

Ron kicked at a clump of grass, sighed, and lengthened his stride. Between Hermione canvassing for Snape like he was a bloody house elf, and Harry steeped in whatever bizarre combination of guilt and malice he was nurturing, he'd gotten thoroughly sick of it all. And he damn well _didn't_ believe that Dumbledore had gotten it so badly wrong, and he doubted if Harry believed it either. If you couldn't trust _Dumbledore_ to know his way around magic… And they _had_ tracked down and killed all the Horcruxes, hadn't they? Well, with help. But it stood to reason that if Dumbledore hadn't really killed the thing in the ring, his instructions for doing in the rest of them shouldn't have worked either. Snape had pulled a fast one over the Wizarding World, and the half-year he'd spent in Azkaban didn't even begin to approach justice. Euthanasia, my ruddy arse, he thought again, for perhaps the thousandth time since the slimy git's trial.

* * *

"You're pissed to the gills, aren't you." He might have been commenting on the weather. Cloudy with a chance of photographers, breaking in the afternoon as the speeches got underway.

"Hardly. Just up to my pectoral fins." She pulled the flask from her pocket, and reached to press it into his hand. It was the first time she'd touched him since That Night. "You look like you could use a pull. How're you holding up, Severus?"

He glanced about, tipped back the flask, and coughed a bit. "Fine, just fine. Had a lovely little holiday on an island in the North Sea. Very restorative." His old flippancy was lacking, the words fell like ash. She put her hand on his arm, and he positively twitched, before straightening and squaring his shoulders. She didn't know which reaction pulled harder at her heartstrings. He'd never forgive her if she succumbed to the sudden longing to fold his gangly body into a hard embrace.

"But enough about me, how are you?" All false cheer and sarcastic joviality. It hurt.

But she could take a hint; they were Hogwarts Staff, after all, and Staff understood about presenting a united front of unflappability. They'd made it through everything else, they were certainly going to make it through this dog-and-pony memorial. She took another swig of scotch for good measure. It was, after all, going to be a long and tedious ceremony. "Tired. Furious. Mostly tired."

"Why furious?"

"Rita Skeeter's Muggle muck-raking. I don't know how much you've heard about it, have you read any of her books? No, I suppose you wouldn't have done.

It's one thing here, where everyone knows she's writing pure trash, but out amongst the Muggles? I've had the most damnable time with the Hogwarts visits this year, trying to convince parents that no, we haven't had any Tolkein-esque battles on the school grounds, no, there have never been any Muggleborn concentration camps, no, Riddle never did have any influence in the school, no, the Headmaster wasn't murdered in a hostile terrorist take-over…" She trailed off, realising that her tongue was going in entirely the wrong direction.

"No, he was just a bumbling idiot, who couldn't bear to keep his fingers off obviously Dark objects." His lips had thinned to a repressive line. He turned away from her, looking out across the lake, but probably, she thought, not seeing it.

"It was important, what you did." She said it softly. "I think, even towards the end, he must have known what it would cost you."

"Bollocks, Minerva," He lowered his voice, his eyes flashing dangerously. It was the most expression she'd seen since they'd dragged him, screaming, into the boat. "You and I both know he fucked around with Riddle's Horcruxes for years, he courted disaster every step of the way. Was he even sane, was he even Albus, when he lowered the goddamn wards? _I looked in his eyes, Minerva_. It was," He swallowed hard, "I didn't have a choice."

"I know that." She gave in to poor judgement, and put an arm around his shoulders. After a moment, she felt some of the tension dissipate from his muscles.

"Do you know, I can still smell him? Those last few hours, when we should have been after those fucking artefacts, instead of trying to bring him back. It would have saved us all a year of misery if I'd just strangled him with his goddamn beard. Or if I _had_ just levelled a Killing Curse at him."

"Severus, we didn't know why they were on the grounds, we didn't know Albus even had those foul things –"

"I knew. I guessed."

"No one would have believed you. You know that. And we thought he might recover, none of us realised that he'd brought the wards down himself. Well, yes, Severus, you said, but obviously, none of us were listening to you, I didn't even think to check the ward crystals, and then Potter was chasing after the Death Eaters, and Draco Malfoy was bleeding out, and by that time …"

"By that time, it was obvious to the meanest intellect that whatever was in Albus Dumbledore's body wasn't Albus Dumbledore. And none of you lot were going to do a fucking thing about it."

She gave his shoulders a squeeze, released him, and passed him back the flask. "We should go and find seats."

"Because heaven forfend we don't appear devoted to the Late, Great Dumbledore and his Final Sacrifice."

She rewarded this effort towards his usual sarcasm with a weak smile. "At the very least, we should go and ensure that Gilderoy Lockhart isn't fornicating with students across the tomb," she tucked the empty flask back into her robes, "And the sad thing is, I don't even think I'm joking."

They walked in silence across the scarred Quidditch pitch. She noted that new grass was starting to erupt from the furrows where Rolanda and Hagrid had plowed down the craters and gashes left by spells that missed their marks. By the time term started, there wouldn't be any physical reminders left of blood soaked dirt, of strewn entrails, of Lucius Malfoy's own son, screaming as his muscles were torn from his bones under the Cruciatus curse, of the Creevey boy sobbing while he cradled his brother's corpse, of that Hufflepuff boy, Macmillan, drowning in his own blood and vomit, of green flames lighting up the desecration of the Ravenclaw Patil girl's face as her features popped and sputtered, melting off her skull –

"I said, are you finished with the Hogwarts visits, then? Minerva, you're a million miles away."

"Thinking. I think too damn much. Remembering Riddle making examples of our students."

There was a long, taut silence, and their progress slowed. She could hear the distant din of so-called mourners, as they gathered near Dumbledore's tomb; the sound was preternaturally loud, and the sweet drift of early clover suddenly cloying. "Min. Min, it wasn't your fault, you have to know that." Thin, cold fingers twisted around her own, and she swallowed hard, squeezing back. That Severus, so broken, so damaged, should be trying to comfort _her_ was almost too much.

"I know. I do know that. I _know_ more people would have died had we resisted, I _know_ our losses would have been heavier. But they're still dead, they're still—Severus, I was Headmistress, it was my _duty_ to protect this school, and I stood aside, I would have thrown open the doors of the Great Hall for that madman, anything –"

His fingers tightened. "Sssshhh. He knew what would make you hurt. You did the only thing you could."

She pressed her lips firm against incipient hysterics. She knew these things, she did.

"He wanted into the school, and nothing could have stood in his way."

A long, shaky breath. Another. "Except the Order."

"Except the Order. More by luck and stupidity than anything else." There was a dark current of bitterness there, one she had no intention of probing the depths of.

They resumed their progress towards the memorial. It seemed tawdry. There were photographers and reporters flitting everywhere, popinjay Ministry officials preening about; even amongst the Order members there were cracks marring the solemnity: there was Nymphadora Tonks, twitching her hair a shade lighter, while Remus Lupin smiled indulgently. The Weasleys were subdued, though. Molly and Arthur always stood so that their bodies touched, when she saw them anymore. Their eldest kept his face down, or turned aside. There was an obvious hole, where two of the other boys should have been standing, and the twins' faces were rigid and somber. She took a deep breath, and started to look away. Potter and his compatriots were approaching the group; a smile lit Ginevra's face, a small answering grin blossomed on Potter's. Life went on, she supposed.

Severus' reluctance to move any closer to the Order was palpable. His shoulders had hunched again, and he was gazing up at the castle with a studied nonchalance she'd come to interpret as the height of affectation. Lull him into the notion? She followed the line of his gaze, "I was surprised, in the end, you know, that the school didn't sustain much damage."

"Riddle was insane, not illogical."

"Well it's obvious he wanted access to Hogwarts without a firefight, but what do you mean 'illogical'? Albus always said Riddle intended Hogwarts as the seat of his power; what does logic have to do with that? You don't think… A Horcrux, Severus? Could he have stored one here? But Albus said there were only seven, we accounted for all of them… Severus?"

His narrowed eyes glittered, and he gave a nearly-imperceptible shake of his head. She turned, and saw that the Minister was approaching. "Were I you, Minerva," he said out the corner of his mouth, "I might want to carefully consider the source of my assumptions."


	2. Chapter 2

Moaning Myrtle's bathroom was hardly a popular locale. It was cold, the walls perpetually clammy, and the floor more often flooded than not. There was also a decided aroma of decay. The damp was a perfectly hospitable clime for mould, and it mottled the corners and recesses. The paint had flecked off of the stall doors in many places, and where rust had failed to accomplished this, vandals had.

Had Hermione been in the mood for introspection, she could have searched out prophetic patterns in the grey and black fungal blooms. Or she might have contemplated the nature of being, while gazing at her reflection in the cracked mirror. Perhaps she could even have dwelt upon the injustices and prejudices of the Wizarding World whilst meditating upon the ever-illustrative ' _Mudbloods Suck Cock_ ' that someone had scratched into the fourth door.

Hermione was not, however, in the mood for deep introspection.

' _Mudbloods Suck Cock_ '. Maybe it was advice: find a place for yourself in the world, get ahead through the only avenues available. That seemed a Slytherin ethos, though, and Slytherins didn't give unsolicited, helpful advice to obvious inferiors, did they?

That was bordering too close to thinking, which was edging onto the no-man's land of introspection. She'd come down here with the express purpose of Not Thinking. She'd done alright in the carriage ride up from the Hogsmeade apparition point: she'd carefully watched the elegant thestrals, memorizing how the play of light from the dying sun threw their twisting vertebrae into sharp relief. And when that palled, she'd concentrated hard on the hem of Professor McGonagall's russet travelling cloak. There'd been a bad moment in Gryffindor Tower, when she'd been changing back into her school robes. Lavender and Parvati had burst in, all rapid-fire questions, wide eyes, and gasps. But she'd pushed past them, clattered down the stairs, and finally fetched up here, huddled beneath the cracked sink.

She was very definitely in the mood for a spot of hiding.

It was cowardice, pure and simple, and admitting to it never bothered her. It was easy, she'd found, to work yourself up to bravery when surrounded by the garish, almost violently cheerful reds and golds of the Gryffindor common room. Easy to cast aside cares and consequences when you could convince yourself that you were special. She was a Best Friend of the Boy Who Lived, wasn't she? It was easy, too, to be brave if there was someone around to be disappointed, or worse - laugh - if you were craven.

On the other hand, it wasn't actually that difficult to be cowardly, either. Perhaps it would be worse if there were witnesses. But here and now, sitting in Myrtle's dank domain, cowardice seemed a nice, safe alternative to facing the other students in Gryffindor Tower.

Besides, look where heroism had landed her. Maybe she could have her own entry in _Hogwarts, A History_. 'Hermione Granger, A Cautionary Tale'. This line of thought was trending rather perilously in the direction of Courtroom 7.

She refocussed her attention on the door of the fourth stall.

' _Mudbloods_ '.

She'd thought they could have spared a bucket of paint or two, while they were busy tidying away all evidence Voldemort's Second Rising. Why just lop the vegetation off, and leave the roots of the problem behind? Surely once, in the entire year Hogwarts had been shuttered after the battle, someone had come into this room and seen the state of it? ' _Mudbloods Suck Cock_ ' had been there back when she was brewing Polyjuice, for godssake.

' _Mudbloods_ '. She still wasn't really offended by the term itself. Dirty blood, because the few genes linked to a propensity for magic had been laundered through Muggles for a few generations? Alright then, moving on. She reckoned the other muggle-born students had about the same reaction, the first time they'd encountered the slur. It was the sort of thing that just didn't have teeth if you lacked insight into the cultural context.

Even now, she'd still rather be called a Mudblood than a cunt, a whore, a bitch… Her blood status wasn't _her_ , personally, was it? Anyone with a reasonably healthy sense of their own value wasn't likely to be brought low by reference to mere genetics. In fact, she rather doubted Harry's mother – by all accounts a clever, well-liked witch - could've had such a violent reaction to the term itself. Harry-filters were dangerous things to view reality through.

Ron-filters weren't all that much better, if she were completely honest with herself. At the crux of it, 'Mudblood', whether used as a slur, or the Pureblood tendency to use it as a casual category, was a word that imposed second-class personhood on someone. Ron would hurl himself, teeth gnashing, hexes flying, at anyone who applied the term to her, but even the night of the Hogwarts battle, it been all 'Here, Hermione, you're not that good at defensive spells, why don't you run off and deliver the diadem to McGonagall, whilst Harry and I sort out these pesky Death Eaters'. In the year since, through St Mungo's, through mourning, through the press, through Rita Fucking Skeeter, through countless attempts to bully them into actually showing up for their last year of schooling _fucking prepared for once_ , now that they were Heroes… through all that, it had only gotten worse. To the boys, now that the Wizarding World no longer hung in the balance, she was just Good Old Hermione, source of answers, source of nagging. Second-class citizen, least of the triumvirate, even less valuable than Mighty Neville Snakeslayer, who still practically wet himself in Potions. Leaving 'Mudblood' off the list didn't actually change the average much.

Too much thinking. She scraped the tip of her tongue over her chipped tooth. She'd considered fixing it, but in the end, the combination of Dente-Gro and spellwork seemed more effort than it was worth. Besides, she wasn't exactly a model daughter, why look like a model patient? In all the ways she'd failed her parents, surely a chipped tooth was the least of them. And then, deep down in the well of Things Better Left Alone, there was a little spark of pleasure in the knowledge that Professor Snape thought she was worth something, worth protecting at least. Granted, Snape hadn't done it heroically – he'd just flung her to the floor, out and away from the blast of heat and light that swelled as McGonagall destroyed the Horcrux. But still, mere pragmatism or not, she'd ended up half-under his sprawling body, and undamaged unless you counted the tooth. It was pretty much the nicest thing that had happened that night. That entire week.

The bathroom door creaked open, mercifully interrupting that line of thought.

"Hermione! There you are, we were wondering. Y'see, someone's gone and let a troll into the castle." Harry offered her a tentative smile, and a hand up.

"I, uh… I needed some time alone. A lot to think about, you know?"

"A lot to sulk about, you mean." Ron was scowling.

She straightened her skirt, and picked her bag off the floor. "That's not fair."

She watched Harry glance between her and Ron, and could have almost pinpointed the instant when he concluded that it wasn't his affair. "Well, I'm sure there are comfier places to think, 'Mione. Besides, it's nearly dinner. I think I heard that it was veal cutlets tonight."

"No, it's shepherd's pie; we had veal last Thursday," Ron corrected.

Harry laughed, and chuffed the back of Ron's head. "You and Hermione are a pair, alright. You've got the meal schedule memorized, and she's got lists of potions ingredients floating around in her head." He seemed to have appointed himself Chief Arbiter of the foundering relationship she and Ron had stumbled into over the last year. Ron laughed dutifully, and she managed a lukewarm smile. Harry's summary was apt, but she wondered if she was the only one who thought that he wasn't describing a matching pair at all.

The Great Hall was warm and cozy, and as the warmth flooded over her, she realized that she'd been chilled to the bone. Acclimatization was a funny process, she mused as she slid in between Lavender and Parvati. Take the boys, for instance. For years, she'd blithely traipsed along behind them, convinced that being their friend was the most important thing she could ever do. She had been quite thoroughly acclimatized. And now? She shook her head slightly, trying, again, to dislodge inconvenient thoughts.

"Where were you, earlier? I had a question about the homework Flitwick set." Lavender pouted out her lower lip. Hermione blinked. Why on Earth was Lavender using that come-on pout on her? Maybe her face had finally frozen that way.

"And you missed Potions, too," Parvati's shrill voice managed to carry down the table, and the younger forms glanced up, "Didn't think you could stand being separated from your One True Greasy Love."

Hermione bit back a sharp retort. You were supposed to make allowances for Parvati, these days. And maybe from an outside perspective it did look a bit questionable: anytime a reporter had chased after her with a Dicto-Quill, she'd gone to great pains to refocus the interview on the travesty of Snape's indictment. She usually got written off as a bad interview, though. She rather thought that ultimately she'd garnered less cumulative attention than one of Harry and Ginny's date nights.

"Oh, get your head out of the incense, Parvati. Doesn't take Divination to guess she was out in the broomshed; we were experimenting as to whether it's possible to touch the ceiling with your heels!" Ron Weasley, saviour of every witch's reputation. His proclamation was met with a roar of laughter, and Hermione waited patiently for the floor to open and engulf her. At least the prattling socialites on either side of her stuck to insults that were unlikely to be believed by the rest of the table. Oh well, perhaps it was for the best – if they were diverted by considering her potential as a trollop, she might not have to explain about her afternoon in Courtroom 7.

The table had begun to fill with serving platters, and Hermione breathed easier, until she noted the contents of the casserole dish in front of her. Ron had been right after all, it was shepherd's pie. She lifted out a small, unappetizing portion, and proceeded to poke at it with the back of her fork. Even if despair wasn't settled cold and hard in her stomach, shepherd's pie nights took moral fortitude to get through. She glanced up the table. Ron had gravy on his chin. Eeew.

She pushed her plate back, and rummaged in her bag for a book. It really wouldn't pay to draw attention to herself by being the first person out of the hall. _Altamont on Concealment Draughts_ was interesting the first time she'd read it, but she found _Breckinridge, Burbank, and Karr_ to be a more authoritative source. She drummed her fingers idly on the tabletop, and wished she'd taken the time - perhaps in between bouts of last night's panic - to find some new reading material in the library. That was the problem, though. There just wasn't anything new in the library. Oh, that wasn't to say she'd read every single tome – such a claim would have been arrogant, preposterous, and moreover, a lie. But she had read far and wide, and deep, too, in the fields that interested her. It was difficult, now, to wander through the dusty stacks and find a new friend between some mouldy covers.

Books really were like people, and better substitutes too, in most ways. Unlike people, they kept their opinions about you to themselves. Just like their authorial counterparts, however, books had opinions. And the more you read of them, the more quickly you realized that you couldn't be friends with absolutely every book – they didn't all get along with each other, after all. And some of them, Hermione would be hard-pressed to _want_ to spend time with. _De Laure's Treatise_ was utterly pompous. She idly wished she could hear Professor Snape's opinion of De Laure; it was sure to be wonderfully vitriolic.

She glanced up at the high table, but once again, the Potions Master hadn't condescended to join them. Maybe he didn't care for shepherd's pie, either. She wondered if professors could request meals in their rooms. If so, that was surely what he'd been doing. She'd only seen him in the Great Hall a handful of times since term had started, and somehow she couldn't see him raiding the kitchen after hours. It would be undignified. Hopefully he had some method of procuring nourishment - she'd have to go and see him about the missed class and his temper was not likely to be improved by low blood sugar.

Even if his person were absent from the hall, his name, it seemed, wasn't. She could hear the first and second years complaining about their Potions class – he must have substituted for Slughorn. She gritted her teeth, and vowed to keep her opinions to herself. Professor Snape didn't need her defending his teaching methods, too. Besides, they weren't really worthy of defense. He _was_ callous and mean. On the other hand, he did know what was best, and if the puling brats couldn't listen to an authority figure, they deserved to be insulted. Better to have their feelings hurt than to lose a limb.

She drew in a deep breath, and tried to force her concentration away from their conversation. She was almost successful.

"… that's what I heard, anyway. You know he's tight in with the Malfoys, and nothing ever sticks to them long."

"Must've been traumatic for the git, Azkaban. I hear they sluice 'em down once a week whether they need it or not."

"Shite, then Old Snapey must've had more baths in gaol than any other time his entire life!"

"They can't have used soap – the bugger didn't melt, did he?"

"What? Oh, Muggle joke? Speaking of, did you read Rita's latest?"

"Blllerrrg. _Projectus_ _vomitus_ , eh?"

"Angst-ridden Snape in luuuuuurve, forever pining for poor Harry's dead mum? I'll say!"

Hermione put her book down, sick of pretending, and sick of being surrounded by ingrates, morons, and simpering fools – students, in a word. She shoved _Altamont_ roughly into her bag and stood up, ready to give the little brats what-for.

Harry beat her to it: "Wish you lot would just shut up about my mother! She didn't have a damn thing to do with Snape outside of Slughorn's class. Who the fuck knows why he turned? You can take his so-called testimony or leave it, but the upshot of it is, he made an Unbreakable Vow to Dumbledore. And that's got nothing at all to do with me or mine – he hated my parents! So I'll thank you to keep your grubby noses out of my life, and my history!" He was gripping his fork too hard, and there was a slightly manic gleam in his eyes. It wasn't the principled defense Hermione would have mounted, but at least they'd shut up. It was the result that mattered, she told herself, and like hell was she going to say anything that would get Harry even more wound up.

She realised she was still standing. Excellent going, Granger, way to keep your head down and not call attention to yourself today. She swung her bag to her shoulder; might as well head up to the common room and fetch her Potions lab journal.

"Oi, 'Mione! Aren't you staying for pudding?" Ginny looked up from the whispered conversation she and Harry had resumed. She seemed to be petting his leg beneath the table, which certainly explained some things.

Hermione shook her head, and turned away. She had taken two full steps before she gave in to the impulse to say something. "You're Head Girl, you know. It's your job to stop things like that," she told the redhead.

Ginny screwed up her face, affronted, "People talk, Hermione. And it was Harry's place, not mine."

"It's your responsibility to ensure that students are behaving! You can't just let people slander Hogwarts Staff. Perhaps if you paid more attention to your job than your boyfriend-"

"Don't be a cow, Hermione. First off, no one likes Snape anyway, and second, it's not my bloody fault you're not Head Girl; I'm not the one who told you to go and get yourself a criminal record!"

And there it was. Her face flaming, Hermione collected the tatters of her dignity, and strode out of the Hall. Her heart was pounding in her ears, in contrapuntal rhythm with the furious click of her shoes against the flagstone of the hall. Her anger carried her all the way back into Myrtle's toilet, where she collapsed against the sink. There was a sharp ache beneath her ribs; could guilt and sorrow physically hurt?

"Stupid, useless thug, idiot! Why, why the bloody hell did you ever think you belonged here? Cleverness! Cleverness got you into this mess, and you just couldn't keep your mouth shut, worthless dunderhead!" She stuffed a fist up against her mouth, and bit down on a knuckle as tears flooded her eyes. "Oh shut up. Just shut up, you self-pitying fool. You're being so ridiculous."

"That's right, why _don't_ you shut up?" Myrtle's hollow voice echoed from the porcelain. "You haven't got anything to be gloomy about. After all, you're not _dead_." The ghost gave a loud, artificial sniffle.

Once Myrtle got started, it took her a very long time to stop. Hermione gasped in a breath, and scrubbed hard at her eyes. Stop it, she told herself, try for some maturity. You can't run off and cry in the jakes every time you embarrass yourself. In through the nose, out through the mouth, get a grip on yourself.

"Bye, Myrtle. I'm sorry to bother you."

"That's right! Run away. No one ever, _ever_ has time for Myrtle. Just their own stupid pr-prob-problems!" The ghost had progressed into full-scale sobs. Hermione bit her lip, and wracked her brain for something to say. There wasn't anything, so she quietly worked the doorknob, ducked out, and smacked flat up against a masculine torso.

"Easy there, Hermione. Christ, did you have to set Myrtle off?" Ron pulled the door shut. It didn't marginally reduce the volume.

"Look, let's go and walk down by the pitch, no one's practising out there tonight," Harry kept his voice low, and gestured obliquely back towards the Entrance Hall. Ron nodded fervently, and tightened his grip around Hermione's waist. How he expected her to walk, she had no idea, but just then it made her feel marginally better. He did really care, maybe.

"I'm sorry about this morning, Hermy, if that's what's got you so upset."

She couldn't see his face, but he sounded contrite. Still: "Her-mi-o-nee. And no, that isn't it at all!"

"Well, well, good, then! Because you can't be skipping classes just because we've had a tiff, now, can you? I mean, you won't let us skive off Potions…"

"Lord, Ron, is that why you think I wasn't in class?"

"Well, what else am I supposed to think? You're always just running away and hiding, aren't you?"

She pulled away from him, slumped against the wall, and gently beat her head against the stone. "Maybe. You. Could. Listen. For once in your self-absorbed little life. London? Ministry hearing? Sentencing? Any of that ringing any bells?"

"Oh, hell, Hermione," Harry looked appalled, "I forgot all about that!"

"Fuck me, I did too. I'm an utterly shite boyfriend, aren't I?"

"Don't make me answer that, Ronald."

"I'm really sorry, Hermione," he pulled her close to his chest, tucking her head under his chin.

Her eyes were still burning. She squeezed them closed, breathed in the melange of sweat, laundry detergent, and broom polish. Here, nestled into the comfortable prison of his sturdy arms, she almost felt safe. If she didn't think about the utter _Ron_ -ness of him, for just a few moments she could revel in the feeling that somehow things would come out right. Someone strong, someone adult, could just sweep in and fix everything.

"Let's all just go back up to the Tower; Hermione, you can tell us what happened. We're here for you, no matter what."

They were such entrancing little lies. Funny, she only remembered Professor McGonagall coming down to London with her. She sighed, and pushed away from Ron's well-meaning embrace.

"It's alright. I'll tell you all about it later; I have to run, right now, if I want to make it to Professor Snape's office hours in time."

Harry was rolling his eyes. "Seriously, Hermione? He'll just set you an essay; you can ask for it tomorrow."

She rubbed her tongue over her chipped tooth again, and made a valiant effort to curb her frustration. "Harry, I _really_ can't afford any toes out of line this year. I haven't got Kingsley Shacklebolt or Rufus Scrimgeour worshipping the ground I stand upon; I've barely got McGonagall on my side. It's all well and good for you and Ron to swan around the school without a care in the world. Everyone bloody well loves you, don't they?"

"Hermione, they're not _not_ on your side."

"You really think, Ron? Wish you could've seen them, today, then. Listen, I'll tell you about it later. I have to go, I have to go _now_. I definitely don't need Professor Snape throwing a wobbler at me, on top of everything else."


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione glanced at her watch, and quickened her pace. It was a good thing that the short halls connecting the stairs down to the dungeons were nearly absent of décor – she definitely didn't have time to run an obstacle course around statuary or hanging tapestries. Save for sconces and the occasional suit of armor in a recessed nook, the principal passage down to the dungeons was unrelieved stone, the supporting arches looming close overhead.

She'd spent her first three years at Hogwarts annoyed by these close walls and narrow steps. The crowding and shoving as students either marched like convicts down to Snape's classroom, or made their swift breaks for freedom, was positively intolerable. A Muggle reference book on castle architecture had explained the matter: back when the castle had been used as a military fortification, it was decidedly advantageous to prevent escaping prisoners from moving too quickly _en masse_.

She did wonder why the castle had never remodelled this aspect of itself. In most other respects, it seemed to have forgotten that it was in fact a castle, and had taken on the character of a boarding school with zeal and vigour. It was depressing, really, that it would choose to preserve the ugliest parts of its history. Perhaps the magic in the old stones was guilty of things it had witnessed through the centuries, and used the dungeons as a reminder.

Or, perhaps she was merely anthropomorphising, subconsciously drawing her conclusions from idle thoughts of the dungeons' resident master. She had a niggling suspicion it was the latter.

She frequently caught herself thinking about the dour Potions master. She wasn't sure what she'd expected of him after Riddle's demise, but whatever it was, it wasn't a continuation of the _status quo_. She didn't think she'd been silly enough to imagine him undergoing some remarkable transformation with the weight of Voldemort lifted from his shoulders, especially given the Wizengamot's subsequent dismissal of his role, and a six-month incarceration in Azkaban. But still, it didn't seem quite real that he should be so unchanged. He was the same as ever: aloof, caustic, impatient, and strict. Charity suggested that this was a persona he donned like armor, and that she'd never met the real Severus Snape. She hoped it was true, although what need would he still have of armor?

Had vanquishing Voldemort and his Death Eaters really had no substantive impact on their world at all?

Her musings had carried her fully into the corridor outside Snape's office, and she realized with a start of panic that she had absolutely no idea how to approach the man. Did he know why she'd missed class? Should she apologize, explain? Perhaps even a pre-emptive apology was in order. It was, after all -– she checked her watch –- ten minutes past his office hours.

Then again, perhaps it was better to put forward a strong front. She rather thought that abstaining from raising her hand in class ought to be worth a little after-hours aggravation. She had, after all, been very good about not pestering him with her "infernal arm waving". He couldn't ask for better than that, could he?

Hermione took a deep breath, clenched and unclenched her hands, made a quick scan up and down the dark, narrow hallway, and then, positioning herself firmly in front of the door, raised her hand to knock.

She winced a bit at how loud her knuckles sounded upon the wood. Too boisterous, by far. Perhaps it was even a demanding knock. Oh, this wasn't starting well at all.

The door opened, just as she was contemplating making a run for it, and trying again later. The Potions Master looked down his long nose at her, and she instantly felt five inches shorter. She narrowly avoided reaching up a hand to check her hair and tidy her collar.

"Miss Granger."

Oh, he wasn't going to make this easy, was he? "Good evening, sir. I was wondering if I might have a word with you."

"You may." He didn't move aside, however. He only folded his arms, his pale, spidery fingers shrouded by the dark fabric of his robe.

"Er…"

"Well, you've had your word; now let's see your Charms acumen. Disappear, Miss Granger."

She blinked. She blinked again. And then his humour caught up with her, and, perhaps because she could detect no special malice, a nervous chuckle escaped. She watched a corner of his mouth turn up ever-so-slightly, and she fought to contain a laugh that was getting less nervous, and a bit more hysterical. Snape smiling! No one would ever believe her.

He rolled his eyes, and stepped back from the door. "Well, I knew my luck wouldn't last forever. You might as well come in and have a seat. I'll warn you now, though – if I have to answer questions you've kept pent up since September, I'll not be held responsible for your medical bills at St Mungo's."

Somewhere on those narrow stairs she'd slipped into an alternate reality, that was all there was to it. Because Professor Severus Snape did not make jokes. Ever. She sat down in the chair he'd gestured to. "I haven't been, actually. Keeping questions pent up, that is. I did learn _something_ from Slughorn's class."

He raised an eyebrow, a condescending sneer twisting his lips.

"Between him and that textbook, the class was useless, is what I mean. And I knew you'd probably take points if I tried to ask Potions questions in Defence, so I got into the habit of writing my questions down in the margins, and looking up the answers later. So that's what I've been doing. So, you see, I'm not here to pester you with lesson questions at all." She gave him a weak smile, sickly aware of the fact that she'd been blathering.

His face had relaxed a bit, which she took as a good sign. His tone was bored, which was better than angry or frustrated. "You were planning on getting to the point sometime this century?"

Did she dare? Well, she was a Gryffindor, wasn't she? "Certainly, sir. Maybe even within the next decade."

He snorted, and she was hard pressed not to grin in delight. She'd made him laugh, she really had! Best cut to the chase, though. Any minute the real Professor Snape would be back, and she'd have no chance of emerging from this unscathed. "Actually, I wanted to ask about class today. I missed it, you see –"

"In fact, it had not escaped my attention, Miss Granger. I assure you, I do notice Longbottom's exploding cauldrons."

"Er, yes." That dry tone had successfully derailed the campaign she'd been about to mount.

"Continue, Miss Granger," he sighed. "I presume there is an actual reason behind your absence?"

"I – I had to appear before the Ministry, today. They've finally moved into hearings and sentencing for the students."

Snape's eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward across his desk. "I thought the general amnesty following Potter's hearing applied. You were all cleared of violating restrictions against underage magic. That should have covered the defensive spells used in the fight, as well as everything the three of you used on your… extended camping trip."

"Right, yes. Any second- or third-class offence _was_ included in the Amnesty. It, uh, didn't cover first-class offences though. Unforgiveables, violence against Muggles."

Snape sank back, a look of incredulity dawning across his face, "Who amongst you was stupid enough – or capable enough, frankly – to use an Unforgiveable Curse?"

She twisted the edge of her robes between suddenly clammy fingers, and looked down into her lap. "No one." Don't think about Harry, don't look in his eyes. Truth time: "I was being sentenced for perpetrating violence against Muggles."

"In what conceivable context?"

"Memory charms." Her voice snagged, and she took a steadying breath. Snape's quirked eyebrow demanded clarification. "I obliviated my parents, before we left to hunt Horcruxes. They weren't going to let me stay, they'd been reading the _Prophet_ , see, and knew what was happening. They'd already made plans for us to hide away in Australia. We had a fight about it. And, I… I removed about a week's worth of their memories. Destroyed my plane ticket, wrote a few letters making it seem like I'd gone on ahead, like I was already there, at the apartment they'd rented in Brisbane. So they went on without me, and I went with Harry and Ron instead."

"A week." His voice was hollow.

"I didn't know," she whispered.

A silence stretched out, as the pain beneath her ribcage swelled. She bit her lip; Snape was the last person who would appreciate her tears.

His voice, when he finally broke the silence, was strangely gentle: "I daresay you know now."

She bowed her head again, and sniffed back a traitorous tear.

"And your sentencing?" His tone was firm and business-like.

She could handle that. Back to practicalities. Practicalities she could deal with. "Guilty, of course. Some of them thought I should have a suspended sentence, conditional on behaviour, but they were the minority. Instead I've got a 10-year probationary period."

"The conditions of which are? No, never mind, it's no business of mine. I've presumed too much, Miss Granger, I apologise. You only came here to ask about today's lesson, I imagine."

Good Lord, someone who _didn't_ want to pry into her privacy? "Yes, but it's fine, I don't mind your asking. In fact, well… No. Anyway, it's an extended restriction against using magic. While I'm still in school, I'm restricted anywhere but Hogwarts. After that, they'll bind my magic to a legal guardian; my employer, or someone standing _in loco parentis_ , or, erm, a spouse."

"Hmm." He seemed disinclined to comment further, and instead plucked a battered journal from the corner of his desk, "We continued on with lunitidal effects today, I'll assume you did the reading. For practical application, you were to construct the neap-tide base for the Plinian contraceptive draught; the only observable difference between doing it mid-afternoon and moonrise will be the quantity of vapours. Of course, the efficacy is increased threefold if the timing is right, which brings us to homework: the set problem was to construct a table of twenty neap- and spring-dependent bases, and calculate potency diminishment at 1, 3, and 5 hours remove from optimal timing. Due at the start of next class."

She scribbled frantically. "Should I do the base, too?"

"If you want practise; I'm not grading it."

"Oh. Erm, is there any chance –"

"Granger, you don't need extra points. I can appreciate a desire for endless busy-ness, but I should think you've more important things to focus on than contraceptive potions." He paused, seemed to realise what he'd just said, winced, and revised, "Or anything else you could brew in your second year. Just show up, do the homework, write your NEWTs, and do something useful with your life."

There was a clear warning in his tone, but there was also a compliment buried in there, she was sure of it, and it was just too good an opening to ignore. "Well, that's just the thing, Professor. I've been reading a lot about potions research, since Slughorn, I mean, and it's actually really interesting. And I was wondering," she paused, and drew in a deep breath, before saying in a rush, "I was wondering, sir, if you could perhaps offer some advice on pursuing a career in Potions?"

"Is your head of house really that incompetent, to have failed to discuss career options?" His tone was dry again, and after a moment, he opened a desk drawer from which he extracted a large, cumbersome folder.

He was done with her; she was sure that she read dismissal in the set of his shoulders. Well, it had been worth a try, hadn't it? She reached down, and fumbled to get hold of the strap of her bag. When she looked up again, his eyes were once again studying her. She twitched away from his gaze, suddenly uncertain.

"What, no staunch defence of the werewolf?"

"Professor Lupin does well enough as Head. But I really don't think I'd be best served by asking his advice about a field that he's only got a brushing interest in." She realized, even as she answered, that Snape was toying with her, prodding to see which button or lever elicited a result. She was suddenly, acutely, aware of the fact that she _hadn't_ leapt to a defence of Lupin until Snape had referred to him as "the werewolf". It wasn't that she really thought Lupin was a good Head – he was vastly inferior to McGonagall – but for Snape to question his humanity was intolerable.

She wondered what sort of internal analysis produced the small smirk at the corner of his narrow lips. He hadn't explicitly asked her to leave, had he? Perhaps she wasn't out of luck yet. "Anyway, I would really appreciate it if you could offer me some advice. If it's not convenient now, perhaps I could come back at some other time?" There, that gave him an out.

He sighed, with the air of one unable to put off an unpleasant task, and snapped the folder open, laying it across his desk. She saw her name at the top of a long list of scores. Was this her record? But he was addressing her, so she glanced away from the intriguing folder.

"Your grades, Miss Granger, are not entirely inferior, and while your brewing tends toward pedestrian and uninspired, there may be hope for you. What aspects of the field particularly interest you?"

She swallowed hard. Obviously she'd imagined a compliment earlier. But he still hadn't thrown her out. Onward, because coming up blank in the face of his query would rapidly dispel any interest on his part whatsoever. "I thoroughly enjoyed the practical exercises on deconstructing various potions to base elements. And I do like brewing, I know I could be better at it. But I haven't actually narrowed down any particular aspects I'd like to study – it seems that I don't yet know enough of the entire breadth of the field in order to make that judgement."

"I suppose you've looked into the Alchemical Guild?"

"Er, well I know that it's the official organization for anyone in pure research, but I actually haven't come across much reference to it, outside of the Acknowledgements columns…" She trailed off when she saw the professor roll his eyes.

"Heaven preserve us from the know-it-alls. Miss Granger, you will be much improved as a human being if you learn the value of brevity. A simple, "No, sir, I'm not" would have sufficed admirably."

Her cheeks flaming, she looked away.

"The Guild is an exclusive multinational academic organization. "Official" doesn't go quite far enough. They're probably the single most powerful organization within academia, and certainly they have a legal reach here. Like all worthless bureaucratic institutes, the Ministry finds day-to-day matters of mere administration challenging. As such, they've been content to leave the academics to their own devices, and the governance of their activities to the historical regulations of the guilds. A consequence of this autonomy from Ministerial regulation is that British members of the Alchemical Guild form their own governing body, unanswerable in the majority of their practises to anyone else."

"So, er, that means that… well, what, exactly?" She felt very stupid, as if her mind had abruptly fallen asleep, rather like her left leg had.

"It means, Miss Granger, that in the United Kingdom, only members of the Guild are permitted to engage in research and experimentation. It is illegal, here, to do so without the explicit Guild sanction granted by membership. To gain admission, you present a formal petition: a unified portfolio of experimental or theoretical work in the field."

"But if only members are allowed to do research, how would I do that?"

He sank back in his chair, a scowl of impatience growing across his features. "You either emigrate to a country with less red tape, or you work under the guidance and supervision of a member; an apprenticeship, either of a formal or informal nature."

She opened her mouth to begin her next query, but he cut her off with an imperious wave of his hand. "Unlike you, some of us have things to accomplish this evening. If you are set upon this goal, I can present you as an apprenticeship candidate along with Mr. Malfoy at the December meeting."

She couldn't help it, she positively beamed at him. "Thank you, sir, this means so much to me! Thank you so very much, I really-"

"Miss Granger. The door is over there. Utilize it, please."

She nodded, and hefted her bag to her shoulder. As she grasped the cool handle, he spoke again. "You oughtn't to be so effusive in your gratitude. I don't think you'll particularly enjoy yourself. And given the conditions of your probation, if you ask my opinion, you're likely better off breeding Potters or Weasleys."

* * *

Hermione thumped her bag down on the broad oak library table, and settled into the hard-backed wooden chair with an angry huff. Her eyes were stinging with unshed tears of frustration, but she'd refused herself the refuge of Myrtle's toilet. No, she'd done enough wallowing for one day; it was time to get something accomplished. To hell with Snape; she'd been stupid to think he might actually see something of value in her. No one else did, after all. Know-it-all, Mudblood, nag, frigid bitch, pedestrian and uninspired. Why did those last two hurt the worst? Relative freshness? Or accuracy?

She withdrew the Transfiguration text from her bag and let it fall on the table with a satisfying clunk. She was searching for a quill when a cool, nasal voice intruded upon her self-absorption.

"Really, Granger. Must you be so _loud_? People are trying to work here, you know."

She turned, eyes narrowed. Malfoy had leaned out of the shadows, where he was curled in a basket chair, scrolls littering the floor around him. "What are you doing here, Malfoy?" She twisted his name into a snarl.

He arched a pale eyebrow in response, and sat up straight in the chair. "It's a public space, Granger, but if you must know, I'm plotting my ascendance as the next evil overlord. That's what you wanted to hear, isn't it?"

She felt her cheeks flaming. "I never – I didn't mean – Forget it, sorry."

He was standing now, and turned his back towards her dismissively. The shadows swallowed him again briefly, as he collected his papers. Within a moment, he'd re-emerged into the dull glow of the massive pillar candle that lit the large table.

"You know what the problem is with you Gryffindors?"

"I get the feeling you're going to tell me."

"You can't let go of grudges, and you can't move beyond a single initial impression of anybody you ever clap eyes upon. You're fond of stereotypes, and you can't handle it when the world fails to conform to your happy little categories."

She sniffed, and fixed him with a glare. "What exactly are you implying?"

"I'm not implying anything, Granger. I'm flat-out telling. But I don't have time for didactics, and certainly not with you." He levitated a stack of books and turned to go.

"What, because I'm a Mudblood?"

He allowed the books to settle onto the table top, and turned to face her again, leaning on the books so that the cover of the topmost was obscured by his arm. "That is exactly what I mean. We were, what, twelve? And you'd rather believe that I haven't matured beyond a twelve-year-old's reasoning than confront the fact that perhaps, just perhaps, your preconceived notions of the world don't accurately reflect reality." He gazed at her impassively, his pale eyes hooded, and suddenly too old for the floppy sheaf of hair that fell into them.

She broke away from his gaze after a moment, and stared at the wall of books beyond him. After a few moments, she lowered her eyes, and mentally prodded at the new feeling that was seeping into her. Yes, yes it seemed to be shame. She bit her lip, and studied the texture of her quill, searching for the right words.

They weren't there.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have been so rude. You only asked me to be quiet, I shouldn't have snapped at you. And…" she trailed off, and twisted the quill in her fingers, mangling it even further than it had been. "And I have noticed that you've been making an attempt to be civil. I guess, I guess I ought to have been doing the same. Regardless, I didn't mean to chase you out of the library. You can go back to whatever you were doing, I'll leave you alone. I shouldn't have… I just… I'm just not having a very good day, that's all," she finished softly.

He shrugged, and pulled a chair out. "Whatever. It was too dark in the corner anyway; I was giving myself a headache trying to read back there."

"Why didn't you just get a candle?"

"Same reason I didn't just move. I was too comfortable." He smirked.

"Isn't Acedia a cardinal sin?" She quirked the corner of her mouth.

He flashed her a quick grin as he flipped open one of the volumes before him. "I'm a Slytherin, dollface. The lusting, whoring, greed, and backstabbing have already damned me. What's a little laziness on top of all that?"

She snorted in what she suspected was a very inelegant manner. "Dollface? Who talks like that?"

He sighed and rubbed a hand across his eyes. "Damn it, Granger, now you know my dirty little secret." He leaned back in a dramatic pose of sorrowful agony, "Yes, it's true. The great Draco Malfoy reads Mickey Spillane."

"But, he was a Muggle author."

"And a trashy one at that. Don't worry, my parents were properly appalled. Mother actually broke down in tears and asked why I couldn't read porn like a normal boy." He sighed plaintively, and began jotting notes sideways along the margin of an already-crowded piece of parchment.

She blinked, a bit bewildered at the fact that he actually seemed to be joking with her. She sent a silent plea to the universe: ease up on the profound weirdness, just for today. Had enough, thanks. Come back tomorrow. She turned to her Transfiguration homework tentatively; it wouldn't have shocked her if the diagrams in the text had begun to sport Dali's melting clocks.

Quite fortunately, the diagrams and equations were as they'd always been, and she set to work at tackling the theoretical basis to transfiguring seawater into glass. She'd just worked out the energy flux patterns necessary to build the silicate bonds when the clock chimed nine. There was no putting it off any longer, she'd have to go back to the Tower and face the boys. At least she'd gotten some homework in; Professor McGonagall had been so kind, she was determined to do a good job with this. She hadn't gotten as far as she'd have liked to, but she was fairly confident no one else had managed to figure out the mechanism to purify the seawater of reactive sodium. She'd be willing to bet that Transfiguration would be rather more explosive than usual, tomorrow. No matter how many times McGonagall explained the theory behind manipulating the energy of elementary particle fields, they just never seemed to get it.

Malfoy must have noticed her rolling her eyes, because he shot her an inquisitive glance as he shuffled his scrolls together. When she didn't respond, he followed up with a query: "Transfiguration not going well? I thought you were good at that."

There were two ways to take a comment like that. In deference to the truce, or whatever it was that they'd accomplished, she decided not to take offence. "It's not problems, so much, as a dread of other people's incompetence. Plus, I'll probably wind up having to explain the lesson to them anyway."

He smirked. "Incompetence is the word – that's why I skipped. I probably should have gone, 'cos I never did figure out how to stabilize my glass; it'd hold for a few seconds, then start dripping. But I figured I'd rather not be in the hospital wing during Friday's match."

"Were there many casualties, do you know?" She'd forgotten that the Slytherins had their Transfiguration lesson at the beginning of the week.

"A couple desks." He shrugged. "McGonagall had Snape assisting, so no one was messing around much."

Madam Pince had begun to extinguish the candles near the Restricted Section, so Hermione hurriedly repacked her bag. Malfoy began to move off in the direction of the circulation desk, his tower of books floating along beside him. She followed, and waited while he filled out the library cards. When he'd finished, he seemed surprised to find that she was still there. She suddenly felt foolish. Why hadn't she just left? It wasn't as if they were friends, or anything.

"So, erm, I guess I'll see you around, then. Good luck against Ravenclaw, I suppose." She pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the corridor.

"And am I supposed to think there's no self-interest in those warm wishes?" His tone was droll, but calculating.

"Sorry?"

"I refuse to believe that you don't follow Quidditch."

"I don't, really."

He looked at her as if she'd suddenly sprouted an extra limb. "Astonishing. I really have to explain this?"

"Apparently." Vexation had begun to creep into her voice.

"Potter never does well against curvy Seekers, and Mei Chang's curvier than most. Plus, didn't he date her sister? He's just not aggressive around her, so the Gryffindor Chasers do most of the work, while he waits for an opportunity to catch the Snitch in a gentlemanly fashion. Everyone knows that it'll be better for you lot if you wind up playing Slytherin in the finals as opposed to Ravenclaw."

She shrugged. It was just Quidditch. Really, she couldn't see why "everyone" would waste so much time speculating about Harry's psychology.

"It occurs to me," Malfoy had stopped dead in his tracks, his head cocked to one side, "that Slytherin would probably have an advantage if we got someone pretty for Seeker."

"Oh, I wouldn't sell yourself short." She regretted the flippant remark the instant it left her mouth. That was her problem in a nutshell – saying things merely because they were too clever to keep to herself.

She relaxed, though, when he chuckled. "Unfortunately, Potter seems to be immune to my considerable charms."

She couldn't think of anything to say to that that he wouldn't take badly, so they walked the remainder of the corridor in silence. The absurdity of the situation struck her once more as they rounded the corner in concert. Since when did she wander around with Draco Malfoy, as if they were the best of friends? But then, he had driven himself to the point of gasping exhaustion that night, laying down hexes on the walled ranks of Voldemort's Death Eaters, duelling his mad aunt.

"Malfoy?"

"Yeah?"

"Erm, are we, umn, is this a truce? Or, what?"

"I guess. Don't worry, Slytherins don't really have lice. I expect they tell you that back in first year, but I assure you, my grooming is quite immaculate."

She shook her head. "Do you know, I never expected you to have a sense of humour."

"Well, when's the last time you actually had a conversation with me?"

"Never, actually. At least, not one that didn't involve us hurling insults and hexes."

"There's your problem, then. 'Night." He swept off towards the dungeons, leaving her with a considerable amount of self-reflection to do ** _._**


	4. Chapter 4

Malfoy had been a good distraction; it was only as she was approaching the Fat Lady's portrait that she began to dwell on the tinge of disgust she thought she'd heard in Snape's voice. Better off breeding Weasleys indeed! And that awful hollowness, the roiling quiet when she'd confessed what she'd done. Even Snape, with his acerbic comments, his vitriol, his caustic temper – even he thought she was some sort of monster. Maybe she wasn't even fit enough to just pop out children; what sort of parent would she be to look up to?

She clamped down on her brain's nonstop agony column. This was terribly unproductive, and she was probably assigning motivations and emotions where none existed. He _had_ said he'd put in a word for her with the Alchemical Guild. Along with Malfoy. Now there was pause for consideration: did Malfoy even need to work? She hadn't ever suspected he was genuinely interested in potions; it didn't seem the sort of area where gamesmanship and getting ahead could actually net any concrete benefits.

Then, what did she really know about Malfoy? He was spoilt, he was prejudiced (except perhaps he wasn't), and he might just be acquainted with the mysterious Alchemical Guild. Maybe he'd be willing to share some helpful details with her, if this truce held for any length of time.

She realized she'd lost track of her surroundings when the Fat Lady demanded the password, "for the third and final time, you flighty thing!"

" _Per ardua ad alta_ ," she said, sheepishly, and ducked through into the common room.

Parvati scrambled up off the pouf she'd been lounging on, and bee-lined towards her, trailing glittering braids. Her words were staccato: "Hermione. Listen, about dinner. I'm sorry about that, didn't realise. I just, well, we're all sick of you being up on your high horse all the time, especially when you haven't really got a stake here. No, this isn't coming out right, what I mean is just… I'm sorry." She gave Hermione a searching look from beneath her heavy mascara, and then darted past her for the stairs. "Oh, I wanted to say, too, Professor Trelawney says your aura's all snaggled up," she called back.

"What," she said slowly, "prompted _that_ , I wonder?"

Neville beckoned to an open chair opposite the fire, and she sank into it.

"Harry and Ron told us what happened to your parents. None of us realised. It's the thing about muggle-borns, we usually don't think of you as having any families to worry about when things happen in the Wizarding World. I mean, no one in their right mind is going to go and attack a muggle; it'd land them in Azkaban for years. But all the Death Eaters were a few knuts shy; had to be, to follow Riddle in the first place."

Harry and Ron? They'd actually told everyone? Fuck, and now she was going to be some sort of outcast, a pariah, because they couldn't keep their mouths shut? Neville was looking at her expectantly, as terror clawed at her guts. What did he think she ought to say?

"And the thing is, you've sort of got this holier-than-thou attitude, Hermione. You have to realise it sets people off." Neville tried to cushion it with a smile.

She couldn't begin to follow this apparent non sequitur, and shook her head, utterly perplexed. "I'm sorry, I don't –"

"You haven't got anything to be sorry for, Hermione. We've… Some people have said some pretty awful things about you lately, about how you're too objective about Snape, how you think everyone should just move on from their suffering. You've come across a bit cold, no one's known what to make of it. Ginny even has some sort of daft theory you're being tried as a war criminal for something; I don't think anyone really believed her, except, well, you aren't a prefect this year, and you've been sticking up for Snape so much… It's a bit odd, that. I mean, sure, perhaps he's sorry he did it, but he did kill Dumbledore, and who knows what else he's done. But what I really mean to say is: no one knew your parents had been attacked; we've been a bit uncharitable. More than a bit.

Anyway, I know what it's like having parents in the Janus Thickey ward. If, if you ever want company, or you want to talk…" He trailed off, and essayed her another hopeful smile.

"Th-thanks, Neville. I'll, uh, thanks. Thanks."

"Right then, I'll see you tomorrow?"

She nodded dumbly, and stared into the crackling fire. This was, if anything, worse than what she'd imagined. God, now she was going to have to wade through inappropriate sympathy, too? She drew her arms tight around her chest, and concentrated hard on quashing the rising tide of self-loathing and hurt. She'd gotten good at this: deep breaths. Stop thinking about it. What's done is done, and you'll bloody take whatever ironic punishment the universe metes out.

She'd had her eyes closed, and startled when Ron pressed a sloppy kiss against her neck. His hair was still wet from the shower.

"Don't," she said, as he moved to her earlobe. She pushed his face away, and scrubbed at the saliva he'd trailed on her neck.

"Fine," he huffed, settling into the chair Neville had vacated, "but I hope you realise that this frigid cocktease game is getting awfully old. I do everything for you, I don't know what more you want."

"I don't want anything, Ron. I just wish you'd stop interfering!" She cast a hasty _Muffliato_ ; she simply _was not_ going to have this conversation with him in public.

"What do you mean, interfering? I've done nothing but stick up for you, left, right, and centre, and you can't even give me the time of day. All last year, it was too soon, and then all this summer it was 'Oh, I'm so sad about my parents, I don't want to yet', and now? What the fuck is your excuse now, Hermione? Too much homework?"

"What happened to being sorry for being a shite boyfriend, Ron?" He was upset because she didn't want to noodle in the common room? She'd gotten 10 years of probation today, and his priority was apparently some petting and a handjob.

"I offered to comfort you, I wanted to hear about everything, but nooooo, fucking Potions homework was more important. If it didn't matter to you then, what right do you have to be mad now? You said you'd come back and tell us all about it, but it's been bloody hours, Hermione! What the hell do you expect of us?"

"Hermione!" Harry had descended the stairs leading to the boys dorms. He was lugging his Transfiguration text and a sheaf of messy, crumpled notes. "You're back, good! Listen, have you figured out the Transfiguration homework yet? I don't get this business about fluid state energy flux." He frowned, scrubbed at his ears, and then winced, "I'm interrupting something, aren't I?"

She cancelled the charm, "No, not really, Harry, come sit down."

"What's going on? Ron? The tension here's thick enough to spread on toast."

"Ron and I were discussing my failings. Apparently they're legion."

"Riiiiiiight. Well, this is awkward, then."

"Yes, I rather thought so myself. Isn't it awkward, Ronald?" She leaned back serenely.

Ron snarled something beneath his breath, scrabbled for his wand, and re-cast the privacy charm. "Go on, then, tell us what happened with the Ministry today."

"What do you expect happened? I'm more interested in what the hell the two of you have been telling everyone, and for godssakes, _why_ did you think you had any right to tell Ginny _anything_? Can't the two of you just keep your oars out of it?"

Harry pulled his glasses off, and furiously polished them with the hem of his sweater. "That was my fault, Hermione. I don't even really remember telling her, it was ages ago. Hell, _I_ didn't remember it was your hearing today, I wouldn't have thought she'd have remembered anything about it at all. And I only told her the ministry was going to ask you questions about your parents. I don't know how she extrapolated anything else."

"For someone who doesn't remember it, that was pretty comprehensive, Harry."

"Well. Yes," he addressed his crotch, "I didn't think it… well, I just didn't think."

"Fairly obvious, that. And what'd you tell everyone else?"

"Just that your parents were injured, that they were in St. Mungo's, and everyone should lay off you a bit."

She sighed. It was suddenly too much energy to remain angry. It wouldn't accomplish bugger all, anyhow - they always acted before thinking. She hadn't been able to break them of the habit in nearly 8 years, so it was probably delusional to hope the situation would change now.

"Let's just forget this, then, and go over the Transfig problem, alright?" It was massively inconvenient always being the brains of the operation, but at least it was better than arguing with Ron.

"You're really not going to tell us what happened."

"Let's just focus on things we can do something about, shall we, Ron? Now Harry, what is it, exactly, that you don't get about fluid state?"

"I don't get what I'm supposed to do."

She rubbed her eyes, and pulled a piece of parchment out of her bag. "Have you at least figured out how to purify the water down to a silicate solution?"

"Say what?" He was staring at her blankly. So was Ron. She was used to Ron refusing to acknowledge that he needed her help. He seemed to think that because they were dating, he couldn't, or shouldn't, rely on her for homework assistance. It should have been a relief, but instead, it only added another level of complexity to her relationship with the two boys. She shifted the parchment she was scribbling on so that Ron could see it, too.

Neither one was bothering to look at the equations. Instead, Harry had fixed her with a hopeful, desperate gaze, and Ron was staring at a point behind her head. She gave up, and set her quill down. Obviously, she was going to have to teach them the theory from square one.

"Okay, so the basic theory behind this transfiguration is that seawater contains dissolved elements in it, which can be purified, and reworked into a crystal matrix, by affecting the vibration of the constituent atoms. With me so far?"

"Maybe." Harry had a hopeless tone in his voice. He was picking at a hole in his jeans.

Ron, on the other hand, was blatantly ignoring her attempts at re-teaching the lesson. "Hermione, you can't just ignore things."

She frowned. "What, Ron? It's suddenly so horribly important for you to know everything about my sentence? You couldn't be arsed to even listen to me this morning, when I was trying to ask you to come with me!"

"Well, I'm asking, aren't I? I'm trying, here, Hermione!"

"Well they reached a guilty verdict, _obviously_ , and I'm still here at Hogwarts. I'm not in Azkaban, nor have they wiped my mind and tossed me back to the Muggles. And I've still got my wand. What more do you really need to know?"

"So if they aren't punishing you, why didn't they just issue an amnesty?" Harry frowned, and gave up on the hole.

"I didn't say they weren't punishing me. Now, look, Harry, glass is composed of silicon and oxygen, right?"

"So what is it, then, a suspended sentence?" Ron was incapable of letting anything go.

Fortunately, she was getting good at being single-minded: "So, the thing is, seawater has a lot of other stuff in it, which you need to remove by dissociating the molecules. Ultimately, you wind up transfiguring them into more silicon and oxygen, by changing the electron valences. Okay?"

"I think I'm getting lost. So, you start changing the elements right away?" Harry had begun writing down what she was saying, which was an improvement over staring blankly.

"Because if that's all, I don't see what you're so worked up about, that's nothing!"

"Ronald Weasley! Can't you see I'm trying to help Harry? And really, I'm pretty sure you'd benefit from it too, so you may as well pay attention!"

"Are you trying to imply that I'm stupid?"

"No, Ron. She's calling us both dumb, and telling you to shut up and focus. And you'd better, because I'm not going to be able to help you in class tomorrow."

"Like I need help from my _girlfriend_. I know what I'm doing, well enough. And Hermione, I'm getting really fucking pissed off at you. I'm asking a simple question here, and you're doing everything you can to change the subject. I just want to know what's happened, I've got that right. I mean, we're dating, aren't we?"

"I don't know for how much longer, Ron! Can't you just leave it be? They've bound my bloody magic, thank you very much. I can't so much as summon a quill outside the Hogwarts grounds, and then when I leave, I'll be proximity-bound to whoever I wind up working for!"

"Blimey," he breathed. "Hermione, that's awful, how long is it? And does it have to be a job? Because I thought we'd planned… I mean, once I'm an Auror you wouldn't need to work at all. I mean, money will be tight the first few years, and I suppose you could do some clerical work at Flourish and Blotts, or something. But crikey, I'd hate to see you tied down in a place like that forever. Did they say anything about binding you to your husband?"

She was fully aware that she looked like a demented goldfish. She closed her mouth, but couldn't wipe the look of incredulity off her features. " _That_ is the most sexist thing you've said yet. With everything else you've done this evening, if you think I'm going to be some happy housewife, Ronald, you've got a serious mental imbalance. Good night!" She practically flung herself up the stairs, rage pounding in her ears.

The rush of anger didn't drown out Harry's sarcastic comment. "Well, Ron, I hope you actually _do_ know what you're doing, because you just chased away my tutor. Now it's your job to help me figure out what to do with the free sodium chloride ions."

She resolved, as she closed the door behind her, to pick a seat as far away from them as possible in the morning. It would serve Ron right if he managed to lose a limb, trying to maintain elemental sodium in water.

After a while, she decided that she felt badly about leaving Harry in the lurch, and crept back down to the common room. He was still sitting in front of the fire, absently doodling in the corner of his book as he contemplated the equations she'd written out earlier.

"Has Ron gone up to bed, then?"

He looked up, relief dawning over his features. "Yeah, he left a long time ago. You have to cut him a bit more slack, Hermione. He just says things without thinking. He doesn't mean it that way, you know."

"Do you really think so? I wonder, sometimes." She stared into the fire again, watching as the flames danced over a crumbling log.

"So this binding, it's like a probation?"

"It's exactly a probation. 10 years, minimum."

"What're you going to do?"

There was no way she was going to mention Snape's guarded offer. Not to Harry. "I don't know. Get through this year, get my NEWTs. And on that note, let's get back to work, shall we?"

* * *

She'd been dreaming of home again. Her mother was pruning a rose, and with each meticulous snip, Hermione knew she'd lost the ability to do a spell. It was a strangely comforting dream. She'd woken with a sense of loss, and tears cooling on her cheeks.

This would never do. She pushed the covers back, and swung her legs out of bed.

She hesitated a moment before touching her bare feet to the cold stone floor; it was the worst part of any morning, and she always had to brace herself to do it. The floor was as cold as she'd expected, and the air was chilly as well. Gooseflesh prickled up along her legs, but she forced herself to move slowly, quietly. Parvati was, hands down, the worst person to wake up before it was absolutely imperative. She gathered up her clean robes and the tote containing her bath things from the surface of her trunk, where she'd laid them out the evening before. Lavender always laughed at her, for so carefully arranging the next day's materials. Hermione, however, had never been late to class on account of not being able to find a bra.

She pushed aside the bed curtains, and was immediately struck with the notion that it was colder beyond the velvet drapes. Of course it was absurd – air could certainly flow under and over them – but she shivered nonetheless. A chance glimpse out the narrow window as she approached the door produced another shiver. It had snowed during the night. The grounds below seemed almost to glow in the grey half-light that preceded the dawn.

It would be nice, she thought, to crawl back into bed for a little while. The sheets would still be warm, maybe she'd fall back asleep. Sleeping was good, she didn't have to think, didn't have to plan while she was sleeping. She almost took a step back into the room, before resolutely descending the stairs. Nonsense, she silently admonished. There's no sense in lazing around, you're a bloody adult now and you should act like it. A shower, and then you'll be ready to start the day. If you're fast about it, you might even be able to get a bit of reading in during breakfast.

Her breath was coming sharply from the cold by the time she'd pushed open the door to the Gryffindor showers. She'd often thought it a bit of an injustice that the lavatories were on the main level - it wasn't far for the firsties to go, but on cold mornings, it really didn't contribute to a desire on the older students' part to rouse themselves out of bed any earlier than necessary.

She rubbed her hands over her upper arms, and made a thorough inspection of the showers for any other early risers. Satisfied that none of the other girls had yet braved the frosty morning, Hermione deposited her things on the bench opposite the stall furthest from the door. She flicked her wand in the direction of the door, setting up the mild doorbell ward she'd fallen into the habit of using. Her privacy assured, she mechanically unbuttoned her pyjamas, careful to touch her flesh as little as possible. She folded them neatly, and set them beside her school robes before stepping around the shower curtain and bracing herself against the viciously hot spray.

Every single morning this year, she'd mourned the loss of the privacy and luxury of the Prefects' Bath.

Her shoulders were stinging, but the rest of her had finally warmed, so she set about lathering her hair. It was useless to try washing it the way her mother had always admonished her to, it always seemed to wind up a tangled mess. And really, she didn't have _time_ for that level of frippery. She made a mild concession to conditioner, and worked a glop of it into her curls. A short bit of perfunctory scrubbing saw to the rest of her hygiene, and then the castle's plumbing seemed to sense that she was done, for the water slowed to a cold trickle. She dried herself vigorously, and set after her hair. It was surprising, really, how much there was of it to get snarled up, considering she routinely pulled great wads of it out. The yank of her brush through the tangles produced a clean, sharp pain. It was almost soothing, and the task too soon finished. She twisted the wet mass of it up into a severe knot, and jabbed in several long pins. It was a hopeless venture: as soon as it dried it would start to frizz and fluff out, but at least it would stay out of her eyes for the majority of the day.

She trekked back up the curving staircase, deposited her pyjamas and bath things on the end of her bed, and snatched up her bag. The sun was up, breakfast would be ready shortly, and she had an unfinished Transfiguration problem to solve.

The Great Hall was only sparsely populated. A Ravenclaw fifth-year whose name she'd never learned looked to have been up most of the night: he was staring blankly at a spot somewhere in front of the high table, and methodically swallowing great gulps of tea. Millicent Bulstrode was determinedly attacking what looked like Charms homework, along with a stack of toast. The entire Hufflepuff Quidditch team was also in attendance, although very few of them looked awake, so Hermione wasn't quite sure if they counted or not. McGonagall, as usual, presided over the Great Hall, languorously stirring her tea from behind the newsprint of the _Daily Prophet_. Professors Flitwick and Sprout, being early risers never daunted by the dark of winter, were engaged in a conversation which apparently necessitated wild gesticulations on tiny Flitwick's part.

The only real surprise was Professor Snape.

She'd had to look twice, half-convinced that she'd imagined his pale countenance at McGonagall's left. Snape putting in an appearance in the Great Hall was notable, these days, and she didn't think she'd ever seen him at breakfast before. He looked ill, she thought. Tired. Surely he hadn't looked as diminished yesterday?

He must have sensed her scrutiny, because he lifted his head and swept his dark gaze across the Hall. She ducked her head, and removed the Transfiguration text from her bag. The sight of the text reminded her of what Malfoy had said the night before about Snape assisting McGonagall during class. She supposed it made sense: with Slughorn teaching regular Potions classes through to OWLs, he'd be the most likely candidate to substitute or assist. Yesterday he'd been teaching second-year potions; perhaps, once the little blighters stopped whinging about Snape, they'd realise how lucky they were to have Slughorn the rest of the time. Well, perhaps not 'lucky'. Professor Snape was, hands down, the better instructor, but she didn't expect many Gryffindors to agree with her. He was good, too, in Defence; 6th year had been eye-opening, and she'd been more than a bit disappointed that Lupin had been hired back when Hogwarts re-opened. She expected she ought to feel guilty for looking forward to full moons, but they _learned_ so much more when Lupin was on sick-leave.

She risked another glance at him. Perhaps he'd decided that if he were to be condemned to several hours of Gryffindor Transfig, he'd best have a last meal.

As last meals – or, indeed, meals in general – went, it wasn't much to write home about. Thursdays always did pay homage to Traditional English Bland. She spooned some porridge into her bowl before opening her text to the appropriate page.

By the time the rest of the Gryffindors had trouped down to the Hall, Snape had disappeared. McGonagall, too, seemed about ready to leave. She had folded her paper, and was draining her teacup. The Gryffindors settled upon the table _en masse_ , blocking any further view of the high table. They were rather like a flock of locusts, she thought, as she watched Dean cramming the last half of a muffin into his mouth. Mechanistic mastication pretty much typified the morning routine; thankfully no one ever chose to sit within at least a two-foot radius of her array of papers.

The peal of bells marking ten minutes to the top of the hour rang out, and she hurriedly tidied her papers back into her bag. Harry and Ron had yet to put in an appearance. She was debating whether or not to wrap a few slices of toast for them when they loped, panting, up to the table. She stood, and waited impatiently as they foraged amongst the remains littering the table.

"You'll have to eat on the run," she said shortly, as Ron swung his leg over the bench. "You should've gotten up earlier if you wanted to enjoy your breakfast. We'll only be just on time as it is!"

He scowled at her, but spoke to Harry, "She's worse than my mum. Bossy nag. As if it really matters whether or not we make class on time."

"Of course it matters, Ronald!" She snapped. "These lessons are essential to our NEWT preparations. How many times must I stress that?"

"Well, it's not as if we really need our NEWTs. I mean, Harry and I could waltz into the Ministry tomorrow and they'd put us into Auror training."

She gave a sigh of disgust, and turned on her heel. She wasn't going to be late on Ron's account, she thought as she marched off. Not when she'd just solved the most difficult transfiguration they'd yet attempted. So what if everything else was crumbling to hell? At least she could get _that_ much right, and be damned if she was going to let those two ruin the only things that were still good in her life.

She was vaguely mollified when they jogged to catch up with her as she rounded the last corner before the classroom. Ron had crumbs on the front of his robes. She brushed them off, and straightened his tie. Harry tugged at his own tie preemptively. Ron's ears had gone red, but he didn't say anything.

"What's Snape doing here?" Harry was scowling, as he peered into the classroom.

"He's here to keep us from killing ourselves, obviously." Hermione's lips were pursed tight in a repressive line not unlike McGonagall's.

She picked a seat at the very front of the room, certain that the boys wouldn't follow her. She hadn't sat at the front of a class for years. Not since those first two friendless months, she realised, startled. Harry and Ron always gravitated towards the back of the class, and she'd followed them, of course. She'd always followed them. Perhaps it was past time for a change.


	5. Chapter 5

True to form, neither of the boys had followed her up to the front of the room. Their usual space, in any of the learning environments Hogwarts offered, was as close to the door and as far from the instructor as simultaneously possible. Since neither of them showed any aptitude for the maths involved in a calculation like that, she put it down to some primordial instinct. Maybe it was tied into the Y-chromosome?

She ignored the several quizzical looks blossoming on her classmates' faces, and calmly extracted her text, homework, and notebooks.

"Minerva," Snape's tone was low, but his voice still managed to carry to where she sat. She didn't look up, curious to find out what the teachers had been discussing. "Our resident know-it-all has seen fit to assert that I'm here to keep these miserable dunderheads from killing themselves." Lord, he'd actually heard her? She knew she hadn't made eye contact. She bent over her text, permitting her hair to fall across her face.

"Yes, and?" The Transfiguration teacher's response was distracted.

"Well, I feel I really must apologise, as I'll be leaving shortly. You see, I was under the impression that I was just along to enjoy the merry glee of unfettered carnage. Since that's apparently not the case –"

"You're not getting out of this that easily, Severus," McGonagall snapped. "Now, be a good lad and glower at them until they settle down."

"Shall I perhaps fetch a stick as well, Headmistress?"

"No, but you might fetch your wand out. If you want to hold it between your teeth, that's your own business." McGonagall was apparently ready to begin; she'd moved away from her desk, to stand at the front of the classroom. Hermione could see the green hem of her robe out the corner of one eye. "If I could have your attention, please. _Mr Weasley_. Thank you. Those of you who did the assigned homework are no doubt aware of the catastrophic potential of today's transfiguration. Owing to the need to preserve your lives and limbs, you'll be performing the transfiguration of your respective seawater under direct supervision. Is that clear, Miss Patil?"

"Er, yes?" Parvati's voice was hesitant. The Parvati of old would have been reading _Witch Weekly_ under her desk; Parvati in the absence of her twin tended to doodle butterflies and thorny vines an awful lot. Hermione had briefly wondered at it, but there'd always been too little fellow-feeling between them to presume to ask.

"Now then, who can tell me the chemical composition of glass? Yes, Mr Longbottom?"

"Four oxygen, each with a single bond to every silicon, ma'am."

"Correct, two points. And they are arranged in a tetrahedron, which is important to your transfiguration why?"

Hermione had just realized a dilemma. Sitting at the front of the room meant that she couldn't tell if anyone else had raised their hand. McGonagall was peering at the class inquisitively, so she assumed it was safe, and edged her hand up just a little.

"Go ahead, then, Miss Gra- Mr Malfoy! How good of you to stop by." McGonagall's attention had snapped to the back of the classroom. Hermione turned to look; the rest of the class had as well.

Malfoy was holding his Transfiguration text in front of his chest like a shield. He started to say something, but McGonagall wasn't finished: "Of course, you do realize that you're two days late for your lesson."

"Er, yes, I'm very sorry about that, Professor, but I'd been hoping to sit in on this class, if you don't mind too much?" He had a hopeful look in his eyes, but he wasn't meeting McGonagall's gaze. _Snape_ , Hermione thought.

McGonagall's brain was working in the same vein, it appeared, because she exchanged a brief conversation of raised brows, and a slight shrug with her colleague. "Very well, then. There's an empty seat up front here, beside Miss Granger. Now then, Miss Granger, you were about to explain why the tetrahedral arrangement of silicon dioxide is particularly important to this transfiguration."

"Oh. Right, er… Well, the thing is, it's a very stable arrangement of atoms – that is to say, the electrons don't have reactive energy levels – so once you get the oxygen atoms in place, the bonds require very high temperatures to displace, making the transfiguration effectively permanent, unlike organic transfigurations. But in order to produce a specific, useful, arrangement of the molecules, like a glass pane, for instance, it's necessary to maintain the silica in a reactive, plasmic state, which is, of course, very dangerous."

"Ten points, very nicely put. And a plasma is what, Miss Brown?"

There was a long, taut silence, at the terminus of which McGonagall made that particular _tsk_ -ing sound that was almost worse than the way Snape was rolling his eyes in disgusted disbelief.

"Mr Malfoy, since you've had the benefit of an extra two days to do the assigned background work, perhaps you can tell us all what a plasma is."

Hermione almost winced. Malfoy wouldn't know. He'd told her last night that he didn't know how to keep his glass from dripping. She'd only just thought of plasma at breakfast, herself. She very casually pushed her text to her left, so that he could see the note she'd scrawled to herself in the margin.

"Mr Malfoy, we're waiting."

"Sorry! Sorry, Professor, it's just that this was exactly the thing that I couldn't figure out! Plasma is, of course, the fourth stage of matter, resultant from superheating a gas. By superheating our solutions to a plasmic, or near-plasmic phase, we'd be able to reassemble the bonds into a useful structure. But the problem I couldn't work out, was how to keep the plasma contained. But you could do it with magnetic fields, couldn't you?"

McGonagall looked extraordinarily pleased, and gave Malfoy a rare smile. "Indeed, Mr Malfoy. Thirty points off Slytherin for your truancy, and thirty points _to_ Slytherin for your answer. Yes, we will be using magnetic fields. Once you've purified your seawater to silicon, hydrogen, and oxygen, you will be superheating it to a state of free ionization, and containing the resultant plasma within the electromagnetic fields you learned to generate at the beginning of term. Now then, who would like to list all the free ions we are likely to find in seawater at a neutral temperature?"

Hermione was not fuming. She wasn't! But she was a bit put out. It had been her brilliant idea, after all. It should have been her thirty points. She glanced at Malfoy, who appeared to be doodling on the parchment in front of him. He didn't look at her, but his quill moved with more purpose, and she saw the words " _Thanks, I owe you_ " appear beneath the nib.

Now, that was worth considering. Surely having Malfoy in her debt was of more immediate personal use than winning thirty more points for Gryffindor – and, well, what had Gryffindor been doing for her lately? Perhaps this morning's productivity could pay dividends, after all.

Snape was studiously ignoring them, so why did she get the feeling he'd been entirely aware of the transaction? He'd been standing at stage left, like so much glowering furniture, his arms crossed in front of his chest, and his gaze directed somewhere near the door. Somehow, she read silent protest in the unmoving lines of his body. Had McGonagall read him the riot act, to ensure his patently unwilling participation? He clearly wasn't here out of the goodness of his heart.

McGonagall had finished transcribing the balanced equations onto the board. "Alright, then, let's get started. Pick a flagon of seawater, and ensure your workspaces are cleared. I myself will supervise the back half of the class, and Professor Snape will assist those of you in front." She clapped her hands together briskly, and they scrambled up out of their chairs.

"Sporting of you, Minerva, to not burden me with the imbeciles this time," Snape drawled. It was obvious enough he'd had no intention of delivering this remark _sotto_ _voce_.

"Before we begin, I would like to make it perfectly clear to each and every one of you that I have absolutely no desire to be here. Given a choice in the matter, I would very much rather go back to bed, and leave you all to the uncountable joys of blowing yourselves to oblivion." Snape delivered this proclamation in a bored monotone, as he perched himself upon one of the student desks, idly twirling his wand between his fingers.

He looked almost petulant, she thought. The earlier rigidity was vanished, as if he were a marionette with his strings suddenly cut. He wasn't taking any particular pains to ensure discipline or order amongst their group – instead, he seemed to be watching the flying lessons out on the grounds. Well, she thought, it wasn't as though they needed more instruction; McGonagall had clearly outlined the steps they would need to take.

She closed her eyes for a moment, and pushed extraneous thoughts out of her mind. After a bit, she found the rhythmic sound of her heart, and concentrated on it. When she'd relaxed into its beat, she reached farther in, pulling the tingling strands of magic into long threads that she carefully rolled between her fingers, and then looped around her wand.

She opened her eyes. Of course, she'd done nothing of the sort – there were no green and purple strings of magic coiled on her wand. It was just a visualization device that she used to direct her magic. She'd done _something_ , though. She could feel a certain strength and warmness in her wand hand, and knew that she was ready to begin.

Malfoy, too, seemed to be done his gathering exercises. He was blinking, and rolled his shoulders. "Good luck," she whispered to him, as she reached for the silver flagon of seawater. He nodded, and copied her movements.

She pushed the rest of the room out of her consciousness, concentrating upon the flagon before her, and the vibrating hum of her magic. Transfiguration required one's complete attention. Ron's complaining voice dimmed, Parvati's sighing gusted away, the Potions master's idle movements blurred, even the square of sunlight across her desk melted into the periphery. All that existed was the tingle of the magic, the beating of her heart, and the silver flagon.

_Breathe_ , she told herself, and her diaphragm complied.

_Wand arm up_. Her muscles seemed to respond languorously.

_Incantation_. Did her lips move? She wasn't sure, it didn't matter.

_Fields_. There was a dusky shimmering in front of her eyes. Fields. She'd identified them. Now what?

_Manipulate_. Coils of her magic unwound themselves, merged into the haze, multiplied, diverged, coalesced, wove themselves into an iridescent net within, through, and around the haze. Could she see her magic? She'd never seen it before, was it really purple and green, or – she snapped down on her wandering concentration. Of course she'd never seen her magic. She wouldn't see it now, she'd only lose the thread of things. You couldn't see magic, you could only see spells, only see your magic's physical results. This was a critical juncture, but one she'd learned to pass years ago. She let the notion of sight pass beyond her, felt it slip away.

_Let go. Breathe. Be here where things weren't real._ It would be important to remember to breathe. She would have to remind herself. This dark place, where she wasn't, was tricky like that. She was within her magic, now, and she'd often sensed it could kill her.

The flagon of seawater wasn't, anymore. If Professor Snape had been watching her, he would have seen it suspended in a sphere of crackling little sparks, a mere hand's-breadth from her unseeing eyes. But here, inside the magic, it was only music, vibration, and light. She reached out, and found the strands that she would have called 'Magnesium', had anyone asked. Her magic undulated around them, and their light slowly changed, their vibrations slowing, the pitch of sound altering. It was enough, she let them go.

_Breathe_.

Methodically, she transformed the amorphia, listening carefully to the singing of the strands of light populating her mindscape. Sometimes the strands acted of their own accord – when she took the sodium, the chloride sprung about, twisting around and into the hydrogen. But that was alright, she would tidy them later.

_Breathe_.

Gradually, the ringing became purer, the light more orderly, the vibrations of the silicon interweaving with those of oxygen. She became transfixed by it, enamored. Every weave of it was perfection, every pulse exquisite beauty. Except… something was muffling it. She knew it could be clearer, louder, more incandescent.

The silver. The strands of it were dead, unmoving. Magicked into paralysis. She picked at them, tried to change them, but there was no light. And then she understood, knew that their purpose was to contain, not to become. She let her consciousness release them. Beyond her unseeing eyes, it would have fallen from the crackling sphere, perhaps denting the desk before clanging down to the floor.

But this supposition didn't hold her attention; this little quirk of logic hastened away from her, drowned out by the brilliant crescendo before her sightless eyes. The tapestry of light began to move more quickly, as her magic stroked it, flickered at it. The song became louder, clearer. This was plasma. She had never touched it before, never known it. She was mesmerized, enthralled, lost.

And then there was a subtle wrongness, cold shadows pushing her magic away from the glowing inferno of sound. An anti-magic? No, a different magic.

**_BREATHE_**. It filled her mind like a drumbeat, and would not be ignored. The shadows were wrapped around her magic, controlling it, teasing it way from the plasma, building walls, muffling the glorious, perfect ringing of it.

And then she knew what was happening, knew how close she had come to losing herself. She gathered the strands of her magic back, and the cold shadows unraveled themselves. They didn't leave, but they moved away to the periphery, hovering, fluttering, swirling at the edge of her awareness.

She studied them, for a moment, and then directed her attention back to her own magic. She twisted it, slowed its swirling, coiling dance, and watched as it became cooler, more like the shadows. Now she could touch the plasma, manipulate it without being drawn into it. The shadows dissipated, and for a moment she felt bereft. Without them, the plasma singing was louder, but it was no longer as captivating. She considered it, and then, hesitantly, reached her magic back towards it.

When she touched it now, that part of the tapestry slowed, and became, somehow, less resonant. With sudden insight, she realized that this was how she would shape it. There was a temptation, then, to hurl all of her magic at it, to quench it.

_Breathe_. But what if she waited, planned, moved with precision?

She extended another coil of her magic, gently caressing the plasma. Slowly, ever so slowly, she built a shape within it, molding the pulsating light, cooling it. The dark began to gather, and she realized that the light had dimmed, was going out. She was nearly done. The last notes of the silicon dioxide tapestry faded away, and the silence pressed around her.

For a moment, she was uncertain, and then she remembered her heartbeat, and searched for it. When she was again within its rhythm, the black void diminished. She blinked, and the world returned to her.

Almost instantly, a numbing weariness crashed down upon her, and her legs gave way. Everything was swimming in front of her eyes, the floor was looming up too quickly, and she wasn't entirely certain where her arms were. A different sort of blackness pulled at her, and she was only dimly aware of strong arms catching her as she fell.

An acrid stinging in her nose brought her back, and she rolled away from the smelling salts, gagging.

Ron's face was there, and his lips were moving. The high-pitched ringing in her ears abruptly stopped. "'Mione, Hermione, are you alright?"

Hands, maneuvering her into a sitting position, the edge of the chair she was leaning against digging into her back, and Professor McGonagall's concerned eyes appraising her. "Well, Miss Granger. I dare say you've given us quite a scare. No, no, sit quietly, all's well. No, sit! Still, please. Severus, could you get the girl some water?"

And then a cool glass was being pressed against her lips, and Professor Snape's voice was in her ear, commanding her to "Drink, Miss Granger. You're likely dehydrated, most people are after a transfiguration of this magnitude."

_Transfiguration_ , she thought, incoherently. And then, "My glass! Did it work, is it alright?" Water splashed down her chin, and she wiped at it hurriedly, trying to pull herself up.

"Miss Granger!" McGonagall's voice was sharp, imperative. "You really must sit still for a bit!"

She acquiesced, and relaxed back. It took her a while to notice that she was leaning against something more substantial than the legs of a chair, and she had a moment of blind panic when she realized it was Professor Snape. He gripped her chin in his spidery fingers, and stared at her for several long seconds. "Up you go, then," he muttered, and lifted her into the chair.

"She'll be fine, Minerva. It's just spell fatigue. Weasley, have you, or have you not, got work of your own to attend to? I distinctly recall seeing your workspace at the _back_ of the classroom."

Ron's spluttering faded away into the generalized din of the class, as she rested her head on the cool wood of the desktop. There was a painful throbbing behind her eyes, and she felt a wave of sick rising from her midsection.

"You too, huh?" It was Malfoy.

She opened an eye to look at the Slytherin, who was slumped, slack and sick-looking, beside her. "Yeah, I guess so." Her voice came out raspy.

"It's keeping the electromagnetic fields in place… the longer you hold them, the worse it is."

It made a sort of sense. She closed her eyes, and concentrated on not vomiting.

The low mutter of the other students was intermittently punctuated with crashes and tinkles of breaking glass. Her disappointment throbbed, clamouring against the walls of her skull, on realising that her little phial had likely met the same fate. Her limbs had gone cold and trembling, and it was a trial to raise her head when the peal of bells sounded the end of the morning.

Malfoy looked little better than she did, although he'd managed sitting upright, which was quite beyond her present capabilities. McGonagall had returned to her desk, along the front of which was ranked an assortment of amorphous glass lumps and shards. Off to one corner was a simple cube, and beside it, a tapered phial with delicate twin handles rising from its base to twine around its neck. Could it be? No, surely not. It wasn't at all the vessel she'd envisioned.

The _snick_ of the closing door was loud in the silence that claimed the classroom as the other Gryffindors departed. Snape's shoes clicked up the aisle. She laid her head back down on the desk, breathing in the scent of spilled ink and varnish.

"Draco?" Snape's voice was tinged with concern.

"I'm alright. More or less. Just did more than I ought to have, I wanted to make a sphere but it wouldn't come out right."

"Daft." His black robes swept past their desks, and she watched him lean in to mutter to McGonagall, who rose and accompanied him into the hall with a curious expression on her face.

By the time she'd returned, Hermione was feeling rather better. The nausea had passed, if the weakness hadn't. McGonagall stooped to press a hand to her shoulder, and placed a small glass in front of her. The oily glint of its surface would have given it away as Pepper-Up, if the heavy cinnamon and ginger notes hadn't. "Drink this down, dear. You'll feel much better."

She sipped it back slowly, watching as the professor finished tallying scores on a clipboard. She seemed to be nearly done, and indeed, she soon returned it to her desk, and locked the drawer. Malfoy was repacking his bag when McGonagall returned to where they sat, and deposited the cube and phial in front of them.

"Mr Malfoy, Miss Granger, do make sure that you eat something substantial. You both took fairly nasty turns. Although," she smiled, suddenly, "I really must congratulate the both of you. Both of your transfigurations were excellent."

"But… but I didn't make this phial! I tried to make something, but it didn't look like that!"

"Of course not, they never do the first few times. Form is always more than intention, and it's a mark of true mastery to bring the two into alignment. For early attempts, both of your pieces are very credible efforts. Off to lunch with you, now."

"Nice of her, I guess," Malfoy muttered as he closed the door. "I had the damnedest time with this _thing,"_ he hefted the cube of glass, disgust roiling under his words, "I suppose it'll make a decent paperweight. How'd you manage that phial?" He gave her a narrow-eyed, searching look.

She frowned, trying to think about how to answer. "I'm not sure. I guess, somehow, I knew when all of the notes were in accordance, and that allowed me to bend the strands the way I wanted them. I don't know if that makes sense…" She trailed off.

Malfoy shook his head. "I haven't the foggiest notion as to what you just said. What do you mean, strands and notes?"

"It's just like all the other elemental transfigurations. You know, all the elements are like vibrating, humming strands of light."

"I've never seen that," he said, slowly.

They walked the rest of the way to the Great Hall in silence.


End file.
